


The Sun, The Sea

by Yavannie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, Series Spoilers, Spoilers, Spoilers for Book 5 - A Dance with Dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 15:11:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3654999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yavannie/pseuds/Yavannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the year 306. The war is over and new alliances are forged. Trystane makes the journey to Casterly Rock with his father to treat with Lord Tyrion, and reunites with a childhood friend.</p><p>This work contains spoilers for all books (A Game of Thrones through to A Dance With Dragons), and for sample chapters of The Winds of Winter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sun, The Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaemonMeg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaemonMeg/gifts).



> While I have not warned for underage, it should be noted that Myrcella is 16 in this, which is underage in some parts of world. No other warnings apply.
> 
> For my wonderful beta reader [DaemonMeg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DaemonMeg) who prompted me a Myrcella/Trystane fic a long time ago. I finally got around to it. Betaed by [the_moonmoth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/the_moonmoth), without whom I'd have a terribly tough time in the ASOAIF-verse. Thank you, for everything.

They arrived at Lannisport while the sun was still rising, on the same tide that brought a myriad of fishing boats home. Gulls squawked and circled all around them, gliding on the stiff breeze, every once in a while diving and dipping their bright beaks into the icy water of the Sunset Sea. As the ship slowed and the men began to make ready to berth, the sounds of the harbour were mingling with the cries of the gulls.

“It stinks, doesn’t it?” said Symon Sand.

“No worse than Sunspear Harbour,” said Trystane. “Or most parts of the city, for that matter.”

Symon grunted in agreement. “Do you think the whores compare?” he said. Before Trystane could reply, Symon jabbed a sharp elbow in his side. “Oh, but I forget! You wouldn’t know, would you?”

“My father will surely keep us busy,” he said, ignoring the jape. 

“You, perhaps,” said Symon. “Up there, I’m worth no more than my name.” He nodded towards the immense cliffside rising out of the morning mists to the north.

“I’d happily trade places with you,” said Trystane. There was a reason why he had spent the past three years at sea, hunting down Ironborn instead of at Sunspear with his father.

As if come to embody his thoughts, the captain of the guard appeared. “Prince Doran wishes a word belowdecks, my lord,” he said.

Trystane sighed and pushed away from the railing. “Don’t let them catch you with that kind of language once we make port,” he said. “And tell my father to prepare to come ashore. We can talk on the way to Casterly Rock.”

A Lannister delegation was waiting for them, red and gold banners whipping and cracking in the wind. Ser Jaime Lannister was there to greet them, and Trystane was glad it was he, and not Lord Tyrion on his dragon, who would see them to the keep.

“My lords,” called Ser Jaime as the men hauled out the gangplank. “I hope I find you well. Is Lord Doran truly with you?”

“He is,” came father’s voice from behind, and Trystane moved aside to let the carriers pass him and lift him ashore. After exchanging the customary pleasantries, a palanquin was brought forward, and Doran was carefully helped aboard. He looked at Trystane with the quiet, determined expectation that was all too familiar. And then it was as if his legs had become leaden, impossible to move.

“My lord?”

Trystane turned to find a Lannister guard, holding the reins of a chestnut palfrey. Without a word, and not once looking to the palanquin, he mounted up and rode off to join Ser Jaime at the head of the company.

 

* * *

 

They were greeted in the courtyard of the keep by the lords and ladies of the West, their faces wary and suspicious, save one. He had known she would be there. She had hovered at the edge of his thoughts ever since father had announced that he would make the journey to the Westerlands, the fond memories of a childhood friend, yellow-haired and freckled, green eyes alert and clever beyond their years. Myrcella Baratheon had given him an excuse to play at being a boy again, had been there to delay the responsibilities of adulthood for a short, glorious year before… He cringed to think of it. 

Six years had passed since then, and it should have come as no surprise that Myrcella was no longer a girl. Still, he near enough missed her, eyes flitting over the gathered crowd, and it was only when a movement out of the corner of his eye drew his gaze that he saw her, one hand half-raised as if frozen in a wave.

She was taller, of course; not of a height with him, yet it was clear she was a woman grown. She wore her hair down, and it was only now that he learned firsthand the damage that Darkstar’s sword had wreaked. Her right cheek was covered in puckered scars, starting near her mouth and disappearing back into her golden curls. The ear was missing, he knew. As he met her eyes, an expectant smile tugged at her lips. When she smiled, her face lit up, and somehow, the scars seemed to fade.

Then they passed her, and although he wanted little else than to stop and speak with her, Trystane followed Ser Jaime into the keep.

“Have you broken your fast, my lord?” asked the knight. 

“We have, ser, but the sea air takes its toll.”

“So they say. The kitchens should have a meal prepared. I’ll see to it that you’re fed shortly. Dry throats, however, needn’t wait.”

They were shown into a hall, and even though it was hung with tapestries, the stone walls seemed grey and oppressive to Trystane, the windows letting in too little sunlight, and a strange sort of damp clinging to the air inside. He accepted a glass of wine from a servant, then saw father being carried inside. Already, he was looking for an escape from this stuffy fortress, and as soon as he caught a glimpse of gold near the great doors, his mind was made up. He grabbed Maester Caleotte by the arm as he walked past.

“See to it that the… Lord Doran is comfortable. I will be back soon.” He pressed the glass of wine at the Maester who took it, looking bewildered.

“But my lord!” he protested. “His grace–”

“Don’t call him that,” said Trystane in a low voice. “Not here.”

Before Caleotte could reply, he pushed past him and wound his way through the men who were still filing into the hall, until at last he was face to face with Myrcella.

“My lord,” she said as he approached, turning aside slightly. 

“My lady,” he said. “Myrcella,” he added, more quietly.

“Trystane,” she said, and once again that smile lit up her face. “I never once imagined you would visit the Rock.”

“Neither did I,” he said, looking around. “It’s a very fine rock.”

“You hate it,” she said flatly, and then she laughed. “I always knew you would.”

And it was as though winter had never come at all.

 

* * *

 

The next day, he rose early and stole out of his chambers before the servants came. After a while of exploring the wing where he was quartered, he inevitably began looking for a way out. He followed a winding stair up, and after asking directions from a guard, found a door leading out onto the battlements. The wind was blowing mercilessly, but he managed to find a reasonably sheltered spot looking west over the sea. It was a grey morning, and the sky melted into the horizon, making it impossible to see where one ended and the other began. For a while he stood there, just watching the waves below, white-tipped and forever chasing the shore, until he heard the sounds of someone approaching.

“It will rain today, as sure as the sun,” Myrcella said, coming to stand by his side. 

Trystane arched a brow at her, then glanced at the dense clouds. “I’ve not yet seen her, so perhaps there’s hope still.”

“No hope,” she said. “And it’s just as well. Come. I have a cyvasse set, and I’m starved for a skilled opponent.”

Not long after, they were setting up the board in a pavilion in the Stone Garden. It was already pouring, but Trystane happily braved a little damp. Anything to escape the walls of the castle. The cyvasse set was beautiful, the pieces carved from jade and ivory. A gift from the Queen, Myrcella told him, but he found himself peering over the top of the dividing screen rather than down at the board. Her dress accentuated shapes that were unmistakably those of a woman, not a girl, and her lips were full and red, pursed in concentration as she moved her pieces around with a _click-clicking_ sound. They had once talked and laughed together, he had shared meals with her, had listened to her sing songs from the Westerlands, and he had taught her how to whistle, yet those lips seemed suddenly far too unfamiliar to him.

“Ready?” she asked.

He scrambled to hastily set up the last of his pieces. “Ready.”

She eagerly took the screen away and made a surprised face. “Interesting,” she said politely.

The first move was his to make, but his pieces were a mess, the game lost before they had even started.

 

* * *

 

Although his father sent him message after message, Trystane seemed to always find something better to do with his time. He took to starting his day atop the battlements, and without fail, Myrcella would come to find him, and together they would steal away early, before their duties caught up with them. She showed him the godswood, the Golden Gallery and the cavernous harbour under the castle. They explored the caves of the Rock, looking for veins of gold by flickering torchlight, until Trystane could stand the rough walls no longer, and then they would filch meats and fruit from the kitchen to eat in one of the gardens.

“You are not part of the negotiations,” she said as they were walking one morning. It was raining again, so they paced squares in the covered colonnade surrounding an empty courtyard. As always, she walked on his right.

“My father doesn’t want my advice.”

“No more than you want his guidance?” she asked.

“You wouldn't understand,” he said.

“Perhaps I wouldn’t, but I know _I_ would do everything in my power to decide the course of my life.”

Trystane felt his cheeks turn hot with harm, knowing full well what choices had been made for her. He turned to her, taking her hands in his. “I swear, Myrcella, if I had known. If I had…” He shook his head, the rage against Arianne bubbling in his blood like it hadn’t for years. “I wish you’d never been sent to Sunspear, that my sister–,”

Myrcella pulled her hands away. “I was happy there,” she said. Then she bit her lip and glanced aside. “I miss the sun.”

She began walking again, leaving him to swallow his anger and guilt before catching her up. He offered her his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, she took it. 

“The sun missed you as well,” he said, then cringed at his own poor attempt at poetry. “Winter came when you left,” he added, then cursed himself for making it worse. “I just wish I had known the truth of it, that I could have said good-bye.”

“You wouldn’t have known me,” she said. “I didn’t want you to see me.”

Trystane stopped. He wanted badly to lean down and kiss her, and had he been in Dorne, he might have. But he knew nothing of Myrcella, of the plans made for her by Lord Tyrion, of the men she had known, and the kisses she may have shared. He reached up to brush aside her hair, but she caught his wrist in a tight grip.

“I look hideous,” she said, and even though her voice made the statement plain and emotionless, he could see tears welling in her eyes.

“No,” he said forcefully. “No.”

And then it was she who turned her face up and pressed her mouth to his. Her lips were soft and nervous, and before he had time to answer the kiss, she had pulled away again with a bewildered look. She turned on her heel and ran, leaving him there in stunned silence.

 

* * *

 

Who knew the want for a pair of lips could be so torturous? Trystane listened to the bard singing ballads in the hall that evening, and it was as though he heard each one anew, only now understanding their true meaning. Every song, it seemed, was written with him in mind. Then all of a sudden he found them ridiculous and flat, painting a picture of such washed out colours that it could never hope to compare to life. The next minute he was moved near to tears as the bard plucked at the harp with delicate fingers, the melody ripping at his chest until breathing became painful. He searched every corner of the hall, but she was not there. In the end, it was for the best, he told himself. Seeing those lips without being able to kiss them would only have made it worse.

The next day, Ser Jaime took him hawking, and although the weather was fine and he was glad to be out of the keep, Trystane couldn’t help but feel an uneasiness in his bones. His mind wandered again and again to Myrcella, to the point where Symon hurriedly had to alert him that his hawk was returning, just in time for him to thrust his arm out to receive it. Ser Jaime watched him curiously.

“Not much luck today,” he said, even though the sun was still high in the sky. “Come, ride with me.”

They set off back towards the Rock, and the ambling pace they kept made Trystane squirm in his saddle.

“This is your first time in the Westerlands, is it not?” asked Ser Jaime.

“Yes.”

“How do you like it?”

“Casterly Rock is as magnificent as I have imagined from the tales I heard as a child,” he said.

“Not at all then, I’ll wager, if your nursemaid was Dornish,” said Ser Jaime with a rueful smile.

“It was Lady Myrcella who told me stories of the Westerlands, ser.” Saying her name sent a thrill through his chest.

“Myrcella,” said Ser Jaime. “Of course. She still speaks fondly of her time in Dorne. Not enough sun here, she says.”

Trystane was quiet for a while. What could he say that did not offend? “I’d happily give up the sun if it meant saving her the pain she suffered,” he said.

Ser Jaime gave him a searching look. “You are not like your father, Trystane.”

“I’ve heard the same about you, ser.”

Jaime laughed then. A bitter laugh, Trystane thought. “No matter how unlike your sire, you will still bear the weight of his choices,” said the knight, before spurring his horse into a gallop. 

 

* * *

 

The next morning he looked again for Myrcella, but she was missing from the great hall. He had not seen her for two days, and he was beginning to wonder if their kiss had truly happened, or if he had dreamed it. The food was not to his taste, the bland oats sticky and hard to swallow, but when fruit and cream was brought out, Trystane’s mood brightened. There were winter apples, small and thick of skin, but sweet and tart on the inside. Good apples were rare in Dorne, and these were some of the best he’d tasted. As he cut a slice, he found himself longing to share the fruit with Myrcella, to gently feed her a piece and brush his fingertips over her lips.

“Where is Myrcella?” asked Symon, as if reading his thoughts.

“ _Lady_ Myrcella,” said Trystane, cutting himself another piece of apple.

Symon snorted softly. “Still a Baratheon by name,” he said, “but show me one man who believes she’s not a Hill in truth.”

Trystane’s grip on his dagger tightened, and slowly, he laid it down on the table. “You will speak of her respectfully, or not at all.”

“Easy, friend,” said Symon, holding his hands up. “I’m a bastard, too. There’s no shame in it.”

“This is not Dorne.”

“You don’t need to remind me. The girls here keep their legs shut so tight I’d have more luck wresting open a crocodile’s jaws.”

“And yet you keep trying.”

“I’m just trying to satisfy my curiosity,” said Symon. “Who knows what they’re hiding down there?”

“Teeth, hopefully.”

He left Symon alone with his gutter of a mind and went instead to see if he could figure out where Myrcella was hiding. First, he went to the roof, but the only company he found there were guards lounging on their posts, their faces turned up at the warming sun. Then he looked in the garden, and the godswood, before climbing the stairs to the North tower to listen at the door where he knew the ladies sometimes busied themselves with embroidery. All was quiet, but when he started down the stairs again, he met a maid he had sometimes seen in Myrcella’s company.

“M’lord,” she said, looking aside nervously.

Impatience and opportunity made him bold, so when she passed, he touched her arm to stop her. “Do you know where Lady Myrcella is?”

The maid looked startled, answering in a stammering voice. “She and a few others rode out early this morning m’lord.”

“Who? Where did they go?”

“To the Charwood, m’lord. Lady Myrcella, and Lady Westerling.”

“The Charwood? A forest? Is it far?”

“Not a forest as such, m’lord. It’s small… Half a day’s walk or more to the north and east, m’lord. By horse, I wouldn’t know.”

“Thank you,” said Trystane, and went to find Symon again. He found him dicing with a group of Lannister soldiers.

“Ride out?” said Symon in a doubtful voice. “If you ask me…”

“I’m not asking, I’m telling.”

“Your father has been looking for you again, you know.”

Trystane forced a smile. “I thought you’d be eager to hunt. For crocodile.” He gave him a meaningful look, at last resorting to the one trick that always worked on him. 

Symon’s eyes lit up at that, and within half an hour, they were pushing across the grassy heath, inland and away from the Rock. After two hours of riding their horses fairly hard, Symon spotted the group of young women ahead and a little to their north. They spurred their horses one last time until they drew up beside them. There were four of them; Myrcella, Eleyna Westerling and two ladies-in-waiting. One of the girls, Aliss, had taken a shine to Symon some days before, and greeted him excitedly. Myrcella, however, looked straight at Trystane, her face serious. Her hair was braided and pinned back for riding, the scars plain for everyone to see, and her cheeks were blossoming. Symon was already smiling and flirting with the other three, so Trystane urged his palfrey on until they were side by side. 

“A beautiful day for riding,” he said.

“Why have you come?” she asked.

Trystane felt himself go cold. It was clear from her demeanour that he was not a welcome addition to her company. “I wanted to see you,” he said quietly. “I’ve hardly seen you for days.” Myrcella remained silent, staring into the distance. “Do you want me to leave?” he asked.

“No, of course not,” she said finally. When she continued, it was in a lighter voice. “Have you seen the Charwood? It’s a beautiful place.”

It was. In a sheltered valley where a river cut through the grasslands, a narrow band of trees grew. No more than half a league across, but bursting with tall, leafy beeches, light green and sheer in their frail spring dress. By some quiet understanding, the other three ladies and Symon had let Myrcella and Trystane wander off together to talk, and little by little, she warmed to him again, taking his arm and smiling in earnest.

“There was a village here once,” said Myrcella as they walked between the straight trunks. She pointed at a strange formation of moss-covered rocks. “The remains of a sept,” she said. 

“What happened?” asked Trystane.

“Balerion burned it to the ground. The ashes made the soil fertile, and when the saplings began growing, Loren Lannister declared it a gravesite and banned any cutting of wood here.”

They walked over to the ruined sept and sat on the ground. Trystane caught something glinting in the grass at his feet, and pushed aside the green blades to reveal a piece of glass, stained red and orange. He picked it up to examine it closer. It was a flat, round disc, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand.

“It must be from the windows of the sept,” said Myrcella.

“Melted by fire and set again,” said Trystane. “It’s perfectly smooth. Here, feel it.”

She reached out to take it, and when their hands touched, they both froze. Myrcella looked up at him, and her eyes were dark and filled with doubt, but her lips were parted in the tiniest of gasps, and when he leant down hesitantly, she didn’t back away. The kiss was light as feathers and hot as wildfire, his blood rushing molten down his neck, turning his belly to embers.

“You don’t have to,” said Myrcella before he could kiss her again, her mouth so close to his that he could taste her breath.

He drew back a little. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t need to pretend for my sake,” she said quickly, and all of a sudden, the words were tumbling from her lips. “The whole world knows I’m a bastard… A monstrosity, with a monstrous face. I’m no fitting match, I know it. And your father–”

“Myrcella, what is this?” Trystane tried to make sense of her words. “No fitting match? For whom?”

“Do you truly not know?”

“Know what?”

She swallowed hard and looked up, blinking away tears. “My uncle Tyrion wants Dorne to honour the old agreement. And marry me to… to a Martell.”

Trystane looked at her, his heart beating hard in confused excitement. “Me?” he managed. “Us?”

“Yes,” she said, and Trystane’s heart soared. “But your father, Lord Doran…”

“Will he not agree?”

“He says it’s an insult.”

Trystane shook his head, cursing himself, cursing his father. “He is a fool,” he said.

“Swear you didn’t know,” she said.

“I swear,” he said, and bent down to kiss her again. “I swear,” he mumbled against her lips, over and over between kisses.

She took his hand and squeezed it tightly. “Let’s stay here a while.”

He lay back in the grass, and pulled her down with him, smiling. Then she kissed him again, and although still chaste, it was more urgent. Experimentally he parted his lips a little, and when she next pressed her mouth to his, he caught her top lip between his and gently let his tongue trail across it. She drew a sharp breath, so he stopped, waiting for her to come to him. With her next kiss, she mirrored him, her soft tongue nervously flitting across his lips, and he grinned against her mouth. She pushed off him a little, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“Trystane, I…” she said.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve never… I don’t know anything.”

“Do you know if this feels right or wrong?” he asked and tilted his head up to kiss her once more.

She smiled. “Yes, I do.”

“Then you know everything. Everything you need to know.”

This time she laughed. “After one kiss?”

“As long as it feels right,” he said, and ran his hands up her sides.

He let her explore him, with her mouth, with her fingers. When she became bolder, her tongue pressing against his lips, he accommodated her by opening his mouth and carefully touching his tongue to hers. She tangled her hands in his hair, raked her nails softly through his short beard, and traced his brows with a finger. Soon, she had kissed away the fumbling and the awkward clashing of teeth, and with each touch of her tongue, she tasted sweeter and sweeter.

They laid there while the sun climbed across the sky, until his jerkin was soaked with damp from the grass, and until her chin was raw from his bristles. When they finally rose, the rays of the sun were slanting at an angle that ought to have urged them back to their friends. 

“We should hurry,” she said beside the stream, before pulling him close and standing on her toes to kiss him.

“Do you think they’re looking for us?” he asked in a sunlit clearing as he stopped to trail his lips from her temple to her mouth.

“We should go,” she said.

“We must go,” he said.

When they returned to the others, Symon was grinning at him, but Trystane shook his head warningly. Lady Eleyna was in a sour mood as they started back towards the Rock, complaining that they had been waiting, but Symon joked and flirted with her until her spirits brightened. Myrcella rode apart from Trystane, but again and again they exchanged glances, and her smiles were enough to make his heart pound.

 

* * *

 

That evening he sought his father out. Doran had been given luxurious apartments near the ground, and Trystane was made to wait in an antechamber for close to an hour before being shown in. In the woods, with his blood running hot with Myrcella’s kisses, he had imagined himself bursting into his father’s room, sword drawn, demanding answers. Since then, he had thought the matter over, and decided to approach him in a different way. Father was stubborn as a mule, and a sword would not help him unless he intended to truly use it. When Trystane entered, Doran was sitting by the window, looking out over the Sunset Sea.

“So you are still here,” he said. “I have had reason to believe you forgot to disembark at Lannisport.”

“Forgive me, father. I’ve been taken with this strange country, and you know I find little comfort within stone walls.”

“This journey was not made for comfort. The fate of our line is decided while you distract yourself with hunting and riding.”

“Tell me then, what is to be our fate?”

Doran seemed reluctant to answer, but finally he turned to him. “The dwarf wants us to grovel. He haggles over even the smallest piece of land.”

_After Dorne’s backing of the Mummer’s Dragon, who can blame him?_ But Trystane did not dare voice his thoughts. “Would you prefer dragons to bartering?” he asked instead.

“Arianne paid that price already,” said father. “We owe them nothing, and this concerns you as much as me.” 

Trystane braced himself, then plunged in at the deep end. “Did we come here to find me a wife?”

“That much at least has not escaped you. An alliance with the Westerlands would go some way to secure us against the Lannisters. I hear you rode out with Eleyna Westerling today. That is good. Not an alliance fit a prince, but a good, strong house all the same.”

Choking back a protest, Trystane looked down at the rug under his feet, staring intently at the deep red and gold pattern as he tried to think of something else to say. “If you will have me, I will gladly join your negotiations,” he said carefully. “It’s my future, after all.”

 

* * *

 

He was playing one game in Lord Tyrion’s solar, and another with Myrcella, whenever and wherever they could. 

He had to steel himself with patience to endure the musty smell of books and the careful diplomacy that made the negations seem endless. At times, even Lord Tyrion seemed to tire and would hurl thinly veiled japes at his father, who replied with relentless discipline, wearing the lord down, minute by minute and hour by hour. Trystane might add a word or two, but always felt intimidated by Lord Tyrion’s piercing glare. The matter of his betrothal seemed never to be broached when he was in the room. “You seem eager enough to handle that matter yourself,” said father.

So he did.

After the first morning in Tyrion’s solar, he had lunched with his father, then sent Symon to entertain Eleyna and her friends, pressing a note in his hand. Not half an hour later, Myrcella came to find him on the battlements.

“Not here,” he said as she stood on her toes, but when her lips were on his, he couldn’t help but melt into her kisses, his arms finding their way around her waist as she spoke in his ear of how she had missed him.

She seemed to never tire of his mouth, and they met in the godswood, in the Stone Garden, even in the sept, in a shadowy alcove while the septon took his evening meal, but their kisses were always hurried and nervous. After nearly being caught in a half-abandoned hallway, they knew they had to be more cautious.

“I wish we didn’t have to hide,” said Myrcella.

“Tonight, when the servants are asleep,” said Trystane.

They met again on the battlements. The guards did their rounds, but Myrcella knew of a place where they could climb up and nestle among the tiles where one sloping stretch of roof met another. The night was clear and moonless, and her nose was cold against his cheek where they lay, Trystane’s cloak underneath them, and hers spread on top. 

“They never speak of my betrothal,” he said. 

“I know,” said Myrcella. “Uncle is loath to bring it up again, and your father won’t speak of me in your presence.”

“He wants me to marry Eleyna,” said Trystane. He felt her seize up against his side, so he pulled her closer and kissed her hair. “I’ll never agree,” he said. 

“What if he makes you?”

“I’ll go to sea again. I’ll take you with me.”

She relaxed a little. “If only I were a true Baratheon,” she said. 

“If only my father wasn’t an ass,” said Trystane.

They kissed lazily for a while, and then her fingers began moving into unexplored territory, down his chest, then to tug at his shirt until it came loose from his breeches. When she slipped her hand underneath it, touching his skin, he hummed against her lips, encouraging her to go on.

“So strong,” she murmured, trailing her fingertips across his stomach. “I want to see.”

He released her from his embrace and held his arms out, offering her to take whatever she wanted. With a wicked grin, she sat up and began unbuttoning his shirt. As she pushed it open, he shivered a little from the cool night air, but her hands were warm, and she let them roam his chest until he wanted to groan aloud. Then she bent down and pressed a kiss to his collarbone, and a noise escaped him, his hands knotted into fists from the overwhelming need to touch her. He felt her smile against his skin before she began kissing her way down his chest. 

“Myrcella,” he said, reaching for her hair and tangling his fingers in it. 

“Mm?” She had reached the place where his hair grew thicker, near the top of his breeches.

“Myrcella,” he said again, not quite knowing what he wanted to say, what he wanted her to do.

She sat up again, looking at him questioningly. He put his hand on her hip, and as if she had been waiting for his touch, she quickly straddled him. 

“No,” he said, trying desperately to push her away, but the damage was already done, and her mouth dropped open in shock as she clearly felt the evidence of his arousal. She jerked up off him to stand on her knees. “I’m sorry,” he said, dragging his hand across his brow.

She gave a startled laugh. “Was that…?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Because of me?” she asked, and now her eyes were glittering, a smile playing about her lips.

“Yes.”

“How often…?”

“All the time,” he said, smiling back sheepishly. “I can’t help it.”

He had fully expected her to scramble off him, to perhaps have to climb down from the roof in awkward silence, but instead she adjusted her skirts and carefully sat down again. A hiss escaped him as he felt her, soft and warm against his hardness. 

“Gods,” she breathed.

He placed his hand on her hips again, and she stirred against him, moving slowly, from instinct or some knowledge passed perhaps from friends, and it was all he could do to keep himself from spilling right there and then. Going against his every intention, he found himself fumbling for her shapes through the dress, running his hands over her hips and thighs, then up to drag his thumbs under the curve of her breasts. She responded with the sweetest of moans, tipping her head back and grinding down on him with more force than before. This time he couldn’t help but arch up to meet her, a familiar feeling rushing through his loins.

“Can I touch you?” he asked, the words coming out of sheer self-preservation.

She stilled. “Where?”

“Here,” he said and put his hands on her hips, gently pressing his thumbs against the lowest part of her belly, dragging them down a little.

“Why?”

“To make you feel good.”

“I feel good,” she said.

“This is better,” he promised.

“Oh Gods,” she said again, looking up at the stars. Then she grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled it up a few inches, inviting him to slip his hands under it.

He began by touching her knees, pressing his palms against her skin and spreading his fingers over her legs. Slowly, he let his hands wander up, watching her intently for any sign of hesitation. At last, he reached the soft skin between her thighs, where his fingertips brushed over the delicate fabric of her smallclothes. She tensed, so he stayed there a while, massaging and stroking her skin until she relaxed again. Then he ran his thumbs up her lower lips, and the feel of damp cloth made his blood surge again. Her legs shook a little, but from the noises she made, it was clear they were shivers of the good kind. When he found the hard bud at the top of her sex, he pressed down on it, quite firmly, causing her to buck against him with a gasp. Once again he spread his hands, encouraging her to brace against him.

“Move,” he said.

When she did, she lifted some of her weight off him, and the void she left made him acutely aware of his aching cock, and of how close he was. Pushing that thought away, he focused on meeting her movements, on rubbing his thumbs over her sensitive spot until her breath was coming in stutters. Before long her legs shook again, and she gave a strangled cry as she stiffened against his hands. He spent himself in his breeches then, the sight of her too much to bear. She collapsed on his chest, and he held her, his heart hammering wildly against hers.

“What was that?” Myrcella asked after a while.

“It’s why we make love,” he said and smiled into her hair. “Was it to your liking?”

“It was,” she said. “Strange, but good.”

He wondered if she had ever tried to please herself, but despite what they had just done, he was afraid to ask. Instead, he held her closer, pulling his fingers through her curls until her breathing slowed with sleep, until the sky began to turn grey.

 

* * *

 

He crawled into bed just before sunrise, and when his servant came to wake him, he waved him away, turned to the wall and slept again until the late afternoon.

When he finally rose, he went to find Symon and went to the baths. He stepped into the pool mournfully, knowing that Myrcella’s lingering scent would be washed away, but the cool water felt good, waking him properly. After swimming in the large pool, they sent for chilled wine and soaked in the hottest tubs the baths had to offer. 

“They were looking for you again this morning,” said Symon. “Where were you?”

“Asleep,” said Trystane.

Symon grinned at him, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. “Nightly adventures with the Princess?”

Trystane didn’t reply, just shook his head and sipped his wine in silence. But inside, he felt so deliriously happy it was almost painful, the emotions boiling in his chest like fish in a net, fighting to get out.

 

* * *

 

The Lannisters threw a feast that night. Dressed in his finest doublet, Trystane endured course after course of poorly seasoned food, washed down with passable wine. Father did not attend, his failing health keeping him in his chambers, and that at least brightened the mood a little. Myrcella was seated a way down the table, preferring as always to sit with her friends, but they were close enough to exchange smiles and glances. They grinned across the table when Lord Farman, drunk before the feast even began, fumbled and poured a cup of wine in Lady Marbrand’s lap. They rolled their eyes at the jester’s tame japes about the Ironborn (the one enemy the Martells and the Lannisters could agree upon), and then laughed when he accidentally threw a juggling ball at a passing servant. When Myrcella slowly and deliberately put a grape between her lips, then sucked it delicately into her mouth, all while locking her gaze with his, he had to reach for his cup and drink deep from it to keep his cool.

There was music, and dancing, and after enduring watching Myrcella dance with others for two songs, he threw caution to the wind and approached her.

“Lady Myrcella,” he said and bowed.

“Lord Trystane,” she replied, and even though her face was a mask of practiced disinterest, her eyes glittered.

As a young man grown up during the war, he was no dancer to speak of. Myrcella was better trained, and he gladly followed her lead. The dress she wore was red velvet trimmed with gold lace, and the cut made for a view that had him grinning openly.

“You’ve never looked lovelier,” he said.

“You’re mad,” she replied quietly.

He glanced around, but the music was loud and most everyone was in their cups. “Mad for you, perhaps,” he said.

She glared at him warningly, but he could see she was fighting to keep herself from smiling. “It’s your reputation at stake, my lord.”

“I’ll gladly ruin it. My lady.”

Myrcella hushed him, but her eyes were filled with words unspoken, and her hand held onto his tightly until the music died down and they had to draw apart.

He left soon after, not wanting to waste another morning in bed, but as the din of the feast died down and he started up the great spiral stair to the wing where his chamber was, he heard the sound of running feet behind him. He turned to see Myrcella, and seconds later, she was in his arms.

“I can’t bear it if you leave,” she said. “I can hardly bear it when you leave the room. I’ll go mad, I know it.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” he said. He wanted to say more, to make promises and plans, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead they kissed, hungrily and eagerly, in spite of who might come.

“Let me come with you,” she said, pushing him against the stone wall and pressing herself close.

“To Dorne?” he said, confused.

“To your room,” she said, and dragged her hand down his chest and stomach until she was pressing it against his cock.

He groaned, and she silenced him with another kiss, and the taste of wine on her tongue was the only thing that kept him from rushing into ruin. “You’re drunk,” he said when she broke the kiss. “We both are.”

She backed away, looking hurt, and he was just about to go to her and take her in his arms again when they heard steps coming down the stairs. Myrcella’s eyes widened, and she turned and ran. Trystane leaned against the wall and exhaled slowly, and moments later a maid passed, bobbing a curtsey and mumbling a ‘m’lord’. The walk to his room lasted an age.

 

* * *

 

“Tomorrow, Lord Gawen will join us,” said Doran the next morning. They were in his quarters, Lord Tyrion having assured them his short legs were more than capable of walking stairs still.

Tyrion stopped scratching at the parchment in front of him and looked up. “Why?” he asked.

“He agrees that Lady Eleyna would be a suitable match for Trystane,” said father.

Trystane stared at him in disbelief. “You’ve said nothing of this to me,” he said.

“What is there to say?”

Before he could stop himself, Trystane rose, pushing the chair back with a screech. “I refuse,” he said.

Lord Tyrion held his hands up. “Please, Trystane. Consider your father’s delicate health.” Doran snorted, but Tyrion ignored him. “Gawen will not be joining us,” he said firmly. “Not without my invitation.”

“Leave, Trystane,” said Doran then.

“No,” he said, but then Lord Tyrion looked at him and raised an eyebrow. He very nearly spoke again, but something in the dwarf’s mismatched eyes told him he would have more luck later, without his father. He pressed his lips together, gave a stiff bow, and left.

He paced his chamber for a while, then sent a servant with a message to Myrcella. It wasn’t long before the knock on his door came, and he answered it quickly, ushering her inside. 

“Is this wise?” she asked.

“No, but I had no other choice. Myrcella, do you truly miss Dorne?”

“I do,” she said. “I like the Rock well enough, but I felt more at home at Sunspear even than in King’s Landing. I miss the food, and the sun, and the heat.”

“Could you imagine a life there?”

“I’ve imagined it every day since you arrived.”

He held out his arms, and as she stepped into his embrace, he let out a shivering breath. “How much does Lord Tyrion know?”

“I’ve told him nothing,” she said. “But I should think he can guess well enough.”

“Do you think he would speak to me alone?”

“I think so,” she said, shaking herself free of his arms. “I could arrange it.”

“He’s meeting with my father,” said Trystane. He wondered if he should tell her why he wasn’t attending, but decided against it.

“Well, then.” Myrcella looked around uncertainly. “Are you expecting company?” she asked.

“No.”

She stepped over to the door and barred it, then turned back to him with a grin. He returned the smile, then crossed the distance to his bed in two long strides and threw himself on the covers. With a little laugh, she ran to him, crawling up and lying down next to him, and when they kissed there on the bed, he glimpsed a future he desperately craved.

Before long, her hands were wandering again, and he let his own roam freely, too. She sighed and shifted, then guided his hand to her chest. He palmed a breast gently, running his thumb across the lace of her dress. With a moan, she leaned into his touch, and heady with her encouraging noises, he leaned down to kiss the soft, rounded tops above her bodice.

“Trystane,” she said, and he looked up quickly, afraid he had gone too far. But she pressed against him, and guided his hand further down. “That thing you did to me the other night…”

“Yes?”

“I want to feel it again.”

This time, he slipped his hand inside her smallclothes, running his fingers through her soft curls, pushing one through to her wetness before coming back up to run slow circles around her bud. He watched her as her eyes glazed over and became unfocused, watched her lips part as she sighed with pleasure, watched her chest flush red as she came apart under his touch, and he couldn't recall ever feeling happier.

Sometime later, she was lying by his side, tracing patterns on his chest, her hand under his shirt. “Could I do it to you?” she asked suddenly.

“Do what?” he asked.

“You know,” she said, sliding a finger under the waistband of his breeches.

He sucked a breath in. He had been half-hard since they first started kissing, and the thought of her hands on him set his heart pounding. “I’m sure you could,” he said. 

“May I?”

“Do what you please, my lady.” 

“Will you tell me if I do badly?”

Trystane laughed softly. “I doubt that’s possible.”

She edged down a little and began unlacing his breeches, the look on her face determined. Carefully, she reached down and grabbed him, and her soft grip made him squirm and hiss. She released him, glancing up at him.

“Not good?” she asked, sounding worried.

“Don’t worry,” he said, closing his hand over hers through the cloth. “About anything.”

She edged his cock out of his smallclothes, and her bewildered face as she pulled him free made him chuckle. She frowned at him before resuming her inspection, running her fingers along the shaft, causing it to twitch gently. Then she grabbed him a little more firmly, and it was soon clear she had some notion of how a man pleased himself. Her touch was unpractised, but it was _hers_ , and it made him groan and grip at the bedcovers. She stroked and tugged with curious, careful hands until he was painfully close, and then she stopped, her hand still closed over him, hot and hard against her palm. He let out a disappointed groan, dragging his hands down his face.

“Please don’t stop,” he said.

“I’ve heard from… others that men like it when we use our mouth,” she said.

The mere thought of it made his balls tighten in anticipation, and he propped himself up on his elbows. “Myrcella, you don’t have to,” he said, for a second hating himself.

“But I want to. Can I?”

He looked down at her, wondering what he had done to deserve her. When she put her lips on him, he found himself unable to tear his eyes away, and already with the first, hesitant touch of her tongue, he shuddered and moaned. It was less than a minute before he had to reach down to push her away, and he heard her gasp as she watched him come in quick, hot spurts over his belly. He sank down on the bed again, all of a sudden out of breath, spots dancing across his vision.

She crawled up to nestle in the crook of his arm. “That was…”

“Quick,” he filled in, still huffing. Myrcella snorted softly. “You,” he began. “ _You_. You…” But she put her finger over his lips, and he closed his eyes and basked in her warm glow.

 

* * *

 

He met with Lord Tyrion that evening, and for the first time since the war, he was frightened. Myrcella had assured him he wasn’t dangerous, but he had seen first hand how Rhaegal had burned Storm’s End, torching its mighty walls until they melted like wax, tumbling in chunks into the sea. 

“Lord Trystane,” he said. He was sitting by the fire, holding a glass of wine. There was an empty bottle on the table beside him, and another one half-finished. “Please, join me.”

Trystane sat in the chair Tyrion indicated, and accepted a glass of wine. He sniffed it, and raised his eyebrows. “Dornish,” he said.

“I’ve tried plying your father with it, thinking perhaps the taste will make him miss home.” If the amount of wine he had drunk had affected him, he didn’t let it show. He gave Trystane a wry smile. “I’m ready for you Martells to leave. Are you here to help me with that?”

“I hope so, my lord.”

“My niece arranged this meeting,” said Tyrion lightly. “How well do you know her?”

Myrcella had warned him that Tyrion would try to talk him into a corner. “You know why I’m here,” he said. “I wish to honour the agreement that my father will not.”

“So she says. But what do you stand to gain from it?”

Trystane frowned. “This was your suggestion, my lord.”

“You’re avoiding my questions, boy.”

“Do I have to stand to gain something?”

“I’ve never known a Martell to do something selflessly.”

“Oberyn offered his life for you.”

“Not for me,” said Tyrion, eyes glinting. “Although I’ll be forever grateful to him.”

“I want peace with the Lannisters,” said Trystane. “I want peace for Dorne. Besides, Myrcella makes me happy.”

Tyrion drank deep, then belched. “I’ve tried telling your father as much, but he won’t listen.”

“Then you’re not saying the right things.”

“Or perhaps it’s time I spoke to someone who will.”

 

* * *

 

It was past midnight when they left Lord Tyrion’s solar, the dwarf waddling along with quick steps. Alone, Trystane would never have braved the walk to Myrcella’s chambers, but in the company of Tyrion, the guards saw through him, standing quickly to attention as they passed. They stopped outside her door, and Tyrion turned to Trystane.

“Make sure she knows what she’s agreeing to,” he said, then tapped a quick knock before disappearing down the hallway again.

Myrcella answered the door in her night shift. “Have you lost your wits?” she whispered, glancing behind him before pulling him inside by the arm.

“Ask your uncle,” he said. 

“Did it go well?”

“Well enough for him to escort me to your door,” he said with a grin.

When she pressed herself against him, he could feel her body through her flimsy garment, and he indulged in kissing for a few glorious minutes before taking her hands and sitting her down on the bed. They talked until her beside candle burned low, and then they slipped under the covers and talked by moonlight until their words came less often, and in murmurs. Her back was flush against his chest, and he was twirling a lock of her hair between his fingers, thinking she had gone to sleep when she drew a little breath as if to say something.

“What?” he asked, after a few moments of silence.

“Have you had many others?” she asked.

“Two,” he replied truthfully. She made no reply, so he propped himself up on his elbow to look at her. “What’s the matter?”

“Did you love them?” she asked quietly.

He gave a little sigh and sank back down. “I think so,” he said. “At the time, it certainly seemed that way to me, but the first… I’m not sure anymore. I was very young.”

“How young?” she said, turning her face back to look at him.

“Four-and-ten,” he said. 

“And she?”

“She was older. Perhaps of an age with me now.”

She was silent for a while. “And the other?”

Trystane wavered for a moment. “I was six-and-ten, and so was he.”

“He?” she asked, moving now to face him.

“Yes.”

She looked shocked, and his heart sank. “You prefer men?” she asked.

“Does it seem that way to you?” he said, forcing himself to smile.

Myrcella laid her head down thoughtfully on his chest. “But you loved him?”

“I did.”

“What happened?”

“Father found out. He saw to it that he was sent off in the war, to the front line in the Reach. I went after him, but by the time I got there, it was too late.”

She glanced up at him again. “How awful,” she said, and then flung her arm across his chest to hug him tightly.

And that was that. He looked up at the canopy, sending a prayer of thanks to any gods listening that she was such as she was.

 

* * *

 

They woke from the sound of the maid entering, humming to herself. After sharing a panicked look, Trystane laid flat on his stomach, throwing the covers over his head while Myrcella scrambled to pull the hangings shut. They were sheer, but better than nothing.

“Ceria!” said Myrcella in a shrill voice. “I’m not well today. Please leave.”

“Not well, m’lady?” Trystane heard her say.

“No! Not at all.” Myrcella drew her legs up, which probably meant the maid was close. “I had better sleep a little longer. Please make my excuses to uncle Tyrion.”

“Are you sure…”

“Please, Ceria!”

“Shall I fetch a pail, m’lady?”

“No, no. Just please… I need to be alone for a while. Take the morning off.”

“Very well.”

A few long seconds later, he heard the door shut, and then Myrcella threw the covers back, looking at him wide-eyed and blushing furiously. She burst out laughing, and once she had started, he couldn't help himself either. She pulled at his shoulders until he crawled up to her, still laughing. He kissed her face and let his beard brush against her neck until she squealed, and they tumbled around, kissing and teasing until she tickled him so relentlessly that he had to stop her by straddling her, pinning her arms down with his hands. Of course, that left her entirely at his mercy.

“Unfair,” she wheezed as he nuzzled at her collarbones. 

She kicked at the sheets and laughed until he stopped to kiss her instead. Then her body went limp, and her mouth opened hungrily for him. Afraid that he might be crushing her, he slid down next to her, his lips still on hers. It wasn’t long before her hands were everywhere again, yanking his shirt off and trying to push his breeches down. 

“What do you want?” he murmured jokingly as she reached for his cock, stroking and gently squeezing.

“Everything,” she said, and pressed herself against him.

He took her hand and gently pushed it away. “That isn’t everything,” he said.

“You’ve had others,” she said. “Is my honour any different than yours?”

 _Not to me, perhaps_ , he thought, and tried to shake off fears of their plan failing. “No,” he said. “But it’s seldom good if rushed.”

“I don’t want to wait,” she said. “What if you have to leave here without me?”

“Let me do something for you, and then you can decide,” he said.

“What?”

“A man can make good use of his mouth, too,” he said. “Besides, you’ve seen all of me, and I’ve seen none of you.”

With one finger, he tugged at the neck of her nightgown to bare a shoulder, then pressed a kiss there. She sat up, and in one sweeping movement pulled the offending garment over her head. Her hair fell to her waist, the tousled curls set aflame with the rising sun filtered red by the hangings of the canopy, and aside from her smallclothes, she was all skin and soft curves. Trystane sat back on the bed and let out a long breath. She was right, he knew. Every second not spent touching her was a second wasted, and for every night not in her arms, he was a night poorer. 

Slowly, she pushed her hair aside, draping it over her left shoulder. “Now you see me,” she said.

Trystane rolled onto his knees and leaned over her. Taking her chin in his hand, he tilted her head up and placed a kiss on her cheek, let his lips linger on her scars. “Lie down,” he said.

After days of restraint, of letting her set the pace, it was his turn to explore. Not an inch of her was left unattended as he took his time caressing her round hips, inhaling the scent of her, brushing his fingers over her belly, and with each touch, he was rewarded with sighs and smiles. When he bent down to take a nipple between his lips, she let out a little cry, arching her back off the bed. Finally, he trailed kisses down her chest and stomach, and wedged his body between her thighs until he was close enough to her to feel the heady smell of her cunt. But when he began edging her smallclothes down, she tensed up.

“No,” she said, grasping at his hands. He pushed himself up on his elbows, and looked at her questioningly. “The taste,” she said. “You can’t. I must taste foul.”

“And yet you smell so sweet,” he said.

“Liar,” she said, looking away, her cheeks blossoming.

Instead of answering her, he bent down and buried his face between her thighs, inhaling deeply. She made a horrified sound, squirming underneath him, but he simply looked up again and grinned at her. “Trust me,” he said, then kissed her through the fabric of her smallclothes, making her jerk against his mouth. 

He kissed and sucked until the cloth was soaked through and she had let his hands go. Then he made a second attempt to fully undress her, and this time she didn’t protest. When he pushed aside her dark golden curls, she made distressed noises, but once his tongue was among her folds, the noises turned to moans. Quickly, he wet a finger in his mouth, then pushed it carefully a little way inside her. She gave a sharp hiss, and he stopped for a moment to raise his head and look at her.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded and swallowed hard. “It just feels strange.”

“Tell me if you don’t like it.”

He kept his hand still, and put his mouth on her again. As he licked and sucked, and flicked his tongue over her bundle of nerves, she moved against him of her own accord, pushing him deeper and deeper inside. She buried her hands in his hair, guiding his movements and pace until her legs were shivering. When she came, it was with a broken cry, and her fists still bunched in his hair she yanked him away. He felt the walls of her cunt flutter, and the look on her face made him groan and grind against the sheets in search of friction. 

Once she had stilled, she reached down for him, tugging at his shoulders for him to come to her. Unable to resist temptation, he climbed on top of her, resting his cock against her slit, warm even though his breeches. She moaned softly, moving against him, then began tugging at his waistband. This time, he didn’t stop her, and soon he was naked on top of her.

“Please, Trystane,” she said, moving her hips against him, making his cock slide down her cunt.

He groaned, leaning his forehead against hers. “What if there's a child?” he said.

“Then you’ll _have_ to marry me. Or else make her a sand snake.” Myrcella tilted her hips up again, and this time he felt himself enter her a little. She gasped and froze.

“We don’t have to,” he said.

“Hush,” she said, then moved again, putting her hands on his hips, pushing him in inch by inch. 

“Hells,” he swore between his teeth, the feel of her around him overwhelming.

When he was finally seated deep inside her, she let out a long, slow breath. “That wasn’t so bad,” she said. “And now…?”

“Now…” he said, then stifled a groan as she shifted underneath him. “Now I’ll surely disappoint you, because this feels far too good.”

She laughed a little, and when she shook gently against him, he had to look away and bite his lip not to spill inside her. “How would you disappoint?” she asked.

“If you move now, I will come,” he admitted.

Her mouth dropped open in feigned shock, and her eyes glinted with something like malice. “Will you?” she said and drove her hips up, impossibly pushing him in deeper.

“Myrcella, no,” he said, but it was too late, and as he ground into her, she met him thrust for thrust. She held his gaze, and her lips were parted in a fascinated half-smile, and her hair was spread out on the pillow, glinting gold in the morning sun.

 

* * *

 

“As you know, the queen has made it her current priority to bring peace to the Free Cities,” said Lord Tyrion, seated across the table from Trystane and Doran. “And as you know, she has let me rule more or less in her stead. But I never much enjoyed being Hand, and I don’t enjoy Ashenfield any more than I did King’s Landing. When I was young, I wanted the Rock, and to ride a dragon before I die. I have all I could wish for, save perhaps for a wife.”

“Indeed, my lord,” said Doran flatly.

Tyrion replied with a stiff smile. “I have not been completely honest with you, Prince Doran,” he said, and at the sound of his old title, father stirred in his chair. “I brought you here for a reason I have yet to divulge. A test of sorts, you might say. You see, the Queen intends to unmake the Seven Kingdoms. The Martells have ruled in Dorne for a thousand years, and giving you your title and lands back would have been an easier matter than most, had it not been for your choice to marry Arianne to Aegon.”

Trystane watched his father. His hands were trembling where they held onto the armrest of his chair, and the tendons at his neck strained. “My lord–” he began, his voice unsteady.

“Even so,” said Lord Tyrion sharply, “I offered you a close alliance. Myrcella would have taken the name of Lannister, and had you only swallowed you pride, you would have had your crown, but you chose instead to bicker and haggle, to make arrangements with _my_ lords, behind _my_ back. Luckily for you, Prince Doran, your son has seen reason where you have not.”

“Trystane?” said Doran.

“There are two ways this can go,” continued Tyrion. “Either you go back to Sunspear, and we begin the long and painful process of selecting some of the lesser houses as candidates for rulers. Perhaps we’ll let the people vote, perhaps not. Perhaps we’ll have a war. Or you abdicate. Your son becomes Prince and marries Myrcella, and your line will live on to be kings and queens. Or princes and princesses, the choice is entirely yours.”

Doran turned to Trystane, eyes black with rage. “How long have you conspired behind my back?”

“Only since last night,” said Tyrion. “With me, at least.”

“Well, father,” said Trystane, returning the glare with all the calm he could muster. “Do you agree?”

 

* * *

 

Not even the largest of ships were made entirely for comfort, and aboard the _Seafoam_ not even the Prince’s bunk was made for two. Thus it was that Trystane began his mornings sweaty and hot, his thighs sticking to Myrcella’s, his arm damp from the hair at her neck. Then, they would make love until the sheets were soaked, and if the weather was fine (and it always seemed to be fine), he would order the ship to moor in a bay or cove, and they would dive into the glittering sea, washing the sweat off in the salty water.

By the time they reached Sunspear, it was high summer, Myrcella’s face was freckled and her hair shone white like molten gold. The sun had turned his skin a deep brown, and he had brought her home.

 


End file.
